


baby, when they made me, they broke the mold

by sparklylulz (sparklyulz)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie(s), TW: Blood, illya is bad at not getting hurt, miscommunications abound, napoleon is bad with feelings, slight AU, slight PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyulz/pseuds/sparklylulz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon bent over the table, letting his forehead rest upon the cool wood, trying to sort his thoughts. He’d lost partners -- friends, even -- in the field before. He didn’t know that he would call Illya a friend -- but he wouldn’t not call him a friend, either. The sight of his red blood pooling on the white leather of that backseat had unnerved Napoleon in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.</p><p>(In which Napoleon takes a long time to come to an understanding of a very simple thing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby, when they made me, they broke the mold

**Author's Note:**

> I am officially Man From U.N.C.L.E. trash now, so here's a fic to celebrate it. The title comes from my other favorite losers, Fall Out Boy. Please excuse any errors -- I've been trying to improve this fic for a week now, but this is as good as it'll probably get.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

Illya, it turned out, was not necessarily a terrible spy -- though Napoleon felt perfectly content in taking that admission to his grave. What Illya _was_ terrible at came in the form of communication with the fairer sex. Especially Chop Shop. He stumbled and stuttered -- not that the Red Peril was ever really what one would call “smooth” -- even so, Napoleon got a great deal of amusement from watching Peril and Gaby on their later missions.

It seemed to be generally understood that Napoleon worked best if not tied down to a wife, fiance, sister or any female companion in general. Instead Illya and Chop Shop found themselves thrown together increasingly during the next few months -- though it didn’t seem to particularly thrill either party very much.

Gaby was a nice girl, for the most part. If he hadn’t known she was a spy, he would’ve pegged her for one of those young girls who would later settle down, maybe keeping a career and a couple of kids. That life would no longer be open to her, no matter if she wanted it or not.

Attachments in their line of work ended poorly on the whole -- a fact Napoleon knew too well. But those thoughts belonged in the back of his mind, not where they could compromise his focus. Not that his focus was particularly needed; he watched as Gaby led Illya around a crowded dance floor, each of them paying close attention to their respective targets.

Napoleon merely volunteered with Waverly to tag along as backup if needed. He turned his attention to their body language as they moved throughout the huddle of people enjoying the big band blaring down from the stage.

It seemed obvious that Illya could dance -- _technically_. The passion and creativity required to be a true dancer, however, lacked in comparison as he spun Gaby around with calculated precision. For her part, Chop Shop kept up well with her giant counterpart, dipping with ease and scanning the room nonchalantly.

Pondering briefly about Illya’s body under the dim dance floor lights made Napoleon suddenly uncomfortable, but he was distracted by this thought as a glint of silver caught his eye from across the room. Two men, dressed in mostly black, sat in the shadows observing the floor, the end of a pistol stuck out from around the first of the men’s ankle.

Time to act, he supposed, standing wearily and moving onto the floor.

“Might I cut in?” He asked, smiling nonchalantly at his two partners. They both looked back at him with equal measures of dislike. He tried to not take it personally -- they were both sourpusses for the most part.

“We are trying to dance,” Illya said, and really, he was just asking for Napoleon’s sarcastic reply.

“Oh, is that what you’re calling it?” He said, a smirk lining his features.

Gaby rolled her eyes and turned to move away from both men and their constant need to compete with one another. Napoleon laid a subtle hand on her arm and leaned down to murmur in her ear, “Two men, your two o’clock -- both are keeping more than just socks under those slacks.”

Illya, frustrated by being left out, leaned down as well. “I know of the two men,” he hissed, accent heavy under his frustration. “They are not here for us.”

Napoleon thought that was perhaps true, but it made him uneasy to turn back and notice the men were sitting forward now, watching the three of them carefully.

“I don’t think that’s entirely true, Peril.” He said in a low whisper, “You and Gaby need to try to make your way out -- I’ll meet you around back.”

Before either of the other could complain, Napoleon turned and knocked himself hard into a wealthy man, causing a small chaotic scene. By the time he looked back, both Gaby, Illya, and the two men had disappeared.

In the parking garage he found the car that belonged to the key he’d lifted off the man on the dance floor. It revved easily as he backed out of the space, scanning the deck for any sign of their unwanted friends. Gaby and Illya were both waiting where he told them to, but as they piled in the car, gunshots rang out.

“Drive!” Gaby commanded from the back seat, and for once, Napoleon did exactly what he was told.

Generally, he was the backseat navigator, but he contended with letting his foreign friends handle the route for their escape.

The streets of New York City shone under the lamp posts and street lights, but the grunt of pain from the back seat interrupted the quiet of just the car’s engine speeding down the black top.

“Illya!” Gaby said, her voice high and distraught, “Solo, I think he was hit!”

Napoleon glanced in the rearview and saw the blood pooling on this poor bastard’s leather seats. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. “Peril! Is he conscious?” It came out as a bark, and he didn’t exactly know why, these situations weren’t exactly uncommon in their line of work.

“Unfortunately,” Illya grunted from his slumped position, clutching his side.

“The nearest medical center is ten minutes from here,” Gaby said, calmer now that Illya had spoken, studying her map intently. “If you take a left up ahead you can shave two minutes off the route.”

Napoleon shook his head, “We can’t go to a hospital, Gaby, we’re not exactly civilians. It’s going to look odd when a large Russian shows up with a bullet in his gut, don’t you think?”

She looked as though she wanted to argue, but he felt confident that she also knew what he was saying, though irritating, was the truth. “We’ll take him somewhere safe, where we can get the bullet out,” He said, then muttered, “I hope.”

“Maybe you could also stop hitting the potholes, Cowboy,” Illya groaned, but Napoleon only felt relief with each word the Russian uttered.

“No one likes a backseat driver, Peril,” he chided, but for the duration of the drive to his safehouse, he made sure to avoid even just normal cracks in the road.

.:.

“This is your home?” Gaby asked, eyebrow raised, looking around at the large living room, fireplace, and leather sofas.

Napoleon tried to grin, but the weight of dragging Peril up the stairs turned it more toward a grimace, “You’ll get the grand tour someday,” he winked.

Laying Illya out on the large dining table, Napoleon reached under his sofa and pulled out his emergency medical kit, reaching for the gloves and alcohol.

“Not your first time?” Illya muttered, sweat lining his brow from pain.

“Your lucky day, Peril. It turns out the wound is mostly superficial.” Napoleon ran his hand up Illya’s muscular side, trying to focus on his task, but his mind wandered over the dip in Illya’s ribs, his hipbones, his lower back. With careful precision, Napoleon inspected the bloody wound.

“Gaby, you may want to wait in the bedroom, or let Peril hold your hand,” Napoleon jested, but she rolled her eyes and Illya said, “I will be fine, if you could get on with it.”

The bullet had missed all the major organs, but Napoleon was sure it would leave one hell of a scar as he worked the small round out of his partner’s side. As he stitched the hole up, he heard Illya mutter in Russian.

“And people call me vain,” Napoleon winked, “this scar will fade, but women find scars very sexy -- I know from personal experience.”

Illya glared back as he gingerly sat up, “Not all of us spend our days seducing women,” he said through gritted teeth.

From beside the fireplace, Gaby smirked, and Napoleon wondered what exactly their relationship boiled down to at the end of the day. “An equal opportunity man then, eh?”

Despite just having a bullet pulled out of his side, Illya still found the strength to hit Napoleon in the jaw -- hard.

“What the--,” but Gaby cut in between them quickly. “It’s been a long day, I think we could all use some rest.”

She proceeded to give them her _do as I say or else_ look before adding, “I claim the bedroom.”

“I’ve been shot!” Illya said weakly as Napoleon protested, “It’s _my_ house!”

With a chuckle of humorless laughter, she eyed them and said coolly, “Something tells me you two will survive.”

As she retreated to the bedroom suite, Napoleon was left to dispose of his mess -- it wouldn’t do to have the maid find bloody bandages and gloves in the trash… again. He’d explained away the first time, but twice in a week might look suspicious.

“I will take large couch,” Peril stated, hauling himself toward the living room. Napoleon had half a mind to watch him fall and make him ask for help, but underneath it all, he wasn’t _that_ heartless.

Swooping to grab Illya under his uninjured side, Napoleon found himself looking directly into his Russian counterpart’s bright blue eyes. Illya, pale and sweaty as he was, still managed to look at Napoleon like he could see each and every secret harbored behind his overabundance of charm. One of the more unnerving things about working with Illya came in his almost robotic manner -- Napoleon briefly wondered if Illya had ever been passionate about anything before the KGB went in and reprogrammed him.

“You are staring,” the Russian accent broke into Napoleon’s thoughts, and he quickly broke his eye contact away.

“I just can’t believe I’m still carrying you around, Peril,” Napoleon said, helping Illya onto the larger of his sofas. It was obvious he was fading fast to sleep and as the pillow was put under his blond head, he muttered in Russian once more.

Napoleon froze, mid turn, and wondered what he should do, but he ultimately wound up saying, “You’re welcome,” before scurrying to his den to have a very strong scotch.

.:.

During the next few missions, Napoleon tried to explain away a sudden anxiety he experienced when in the field with Illya. Chop Shop had been sent on a different from their own, which was not uncommon, given that she seemed to be Waverly’s favorite. Now Napoleon found added pressure to ensure Illya’s safety, though he had long since recovered from the bullet wound.

There were two separate occasions where, Napoleon certain of imminent threat to his partner, jumped the gun and set off a series of misfires across the board.

“What is wrong with you?” Illya asked, pulling off his jacket as they returned to their safehouse after yet another botched mission following Napoleon being thoroughly convinced a little old lady carrying a long thin package had been an assassination attempt. “She was nice old woman.”

Sighing, Napoleon pulled off his own jacket. “She’ll be fine, Peril! I barely grabbed her.”

It was a lie, but Napoleon hoped Illya would just drop it, there didn’t need to be some conversation about this or, god forbid, _feelings_. Napoleon as a general rule did not have feelings. Not deep ones, anyway.

“If you do not stop messing around, we can not work together,” Peril snapped, grabbing his belongings and turning toward his bedroom door, slamming it behind him.

Napoleon bent over the table, letting his forehead rest upon the cool wood, trying to sort his thoughts. He’d lost partners -- friends, even -- in the field before. He didn’t know that he would call Illya a friend -- but he wouldn’t _not_ call him a friend, either. The sight of his red blood pooling on the white leather of that backseat had unnerved Napoleon in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Perhaps he should request a transfer from Waverly -- it seemed clear he was compromised when it came to handling Illya. It wasn’t like Peril was begging to stay on as his partner; they just stuck with each other because they made a decent team and were used to the other’s bad habits and irritating mannerisms.

In Waverly’s office, Napoleon lined out these facts, making what he felt was a pretty solid case for him to be partnered with someone far less likely to get shot than a Russian on loan from the KGB.

Instead his superior looked him up and down then stated, “Figure it out, Solo. I’m not ready to split the band up quite yet.”

With that, he was pushed out the door and found himself colliding straight into Illya. Despite being only a good three or four inches taller, Napoleon still felt embarrassingly small for a moment.

“Did you follow up on my information?” Illya asked, and Napoleon’s brain bogged down, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. His slow comprehension frustrated his counterpart into saying, “I left it on your desk two days ago, though how you find anything in the mess is--”

And then everything snapped back into place and things began to make sense again. Moments like the one he currently found himself in made all the sense in the world -- arguing with Illya, teasing Illya -- it was effortless.

“Be careful or you’ll start sounding like Gaby,” Napoleon grinned, then made a quick getaway before Illya’s freakishly long arms could reach and grab him.

From that point onward, it got easier to be in the field. The two of them continued to carry out U.N.C.L.E. missions and reports, despite Gaby being moved permanently to a higher tier of classification than the government would dare give a KGB agent and a rogue thief-cum-spy.

“Do you miss Russia?” Napoleon had asked one evening, sitting in a dingy bar and watching the patrons with nonchalant interest.

Seeming surprised by the question, Illya glanced down at his glass of wine, “In some ways… In others, not so much. I am not used to the freedom Waverly allows us.”

Napoleon tried not to snort at his admission, “Fair enough, pal.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, but Napoleon felt there was much more to ask, to say. They had been partners for months, yet he knew next to nothing about Peril beyond what his files had to say, and that was outstandingly pathetic.

“Must be hard, not seeing Gaby,” Napoleon mentioned, in a way he hoped was subtle. “You two seemed pretty close.”

A shift in Illya’s disposition concerned Napoleon that perhaps he had gone too far. Then, hesitantly, Illya said, “Chop Shop and I were friends, nothing more.”

“But--” Napoleon opened his mouth to press his luck, but Peril shut him down.

“She is a good friend, nothing more. They are hard to find, especially for me, I do not wish to mess them up.” He gave a significant glance to his drinking mate.

Friends. It didn’t feel so strange now, to think of that word and picture Illya’s face. His blue eyes, his ribcage under Napoleon’s gentle fingers. Flashes of moments between them filled this thoughts -- laughing, running, even fighting.

“No, you’re right on that one, Peril.” Napoleon said, lifting his glass for a toast.

When their glasses made contact a moment later, he tried very hard not to think about the tightness in his chest.

.:.

“What happened back there, Cowboy? You nearly got us both killed!” Illya’s anger and tone were only quailed by the fact that they were laying low under a set of stairs near a pair of THRUSH agents.

Napoleon glared back, “She knew we were from UNCLE before I could even get a word out, what did you want me to do?”

Illya’s hand flexed -- a warning sign to his partner. “That is bullshit, you lost focus, and it cost us our target!” His whispers left hot breath on Napoleon’s ears and neck, though he tried not to think about why that made him uncomfortable.

“So you think I didn’t do my job properly? Enlighten me on how that is even remotely possible.” Napoleon jutted his jaw out -- his own warning sign.

They were huddled too closely together for either to have much of a poker face about their current situation.

“You seduce women all the time, but this time you cannot? It makes no sense!” Illya’s rebuttal jarred Napoleon for a moment. Lately, he had struggled with his focus while on missions with Illya when it came to romancing women.

A yell came from next to their hiding hole and with that, they entered a gunfight with five THRUSH agents, no more time to discuss Napoleon’s lack of seduction techniques as of late. In the chaos of battle, he secretly hoped they could drop the matter entirely.

Yet, as they prepared to debrief Waverly in their safehouse, Illya still seemed cross with Napoleon’s actions.

“Since I was shot, you have been different,” Illya began, carefully packing files in his brief case and closing it around them. “You have lost your focus -- I did not think of it much at first, but now I need answers.”

He moved to look Napoleon in the eye, probably to ensure the other man felt reluctant in lying to him. Not one for backing down from a challenge, Napoleon held his gaze and said calmly, “Ask away, my friend.”

Backing off slightly now that he was sure there wouldn’t be an all out fist fight, Illya sighed, “You look at me in odd manner,” he seemed to struggle for the words in English, “like you want to tell me something, but do not have courage to do so.”

Napoleon blinked, uncomfortable with where this path would take him if he were to be honest with Illya.

“I’ve lost good guys in the field before -- great guys, and friends alike -- but never…” He cleared his throat, “Never someone like you, Peril. To be honest, and you should feel honored to hear that rare privilege, you’ve made my time as a dancing monkey for Washington feel less like a prison sentence.”

Cringing internally at his openness, Napoleon tried not to show any outward emotions on his face. As always, his partner could see right through this effort at false bravado and, swallowing slowly, he added, “I care about you as well, Cowboy.”

Napoleon froze midway to packing his shaving kit, flashing back to the night Illya had laid on his couch, delirious with pain and exhaustion, and thanked him for saving his life. There had never been any going back from that point, they both saw that now.

“In Russia,” Illya continued, “I could not be myself, but now I think, in America this may not be the case.”

When Napoleon looked up, he saw Illya glancing up at him through his long blond lashes and everything slammed into place in his mind. Like one of his maps or puzzles, Napoleon now saw it all laid out before him, and he felt idiotic for not having understood it before.

“It’s illegal in this country, too, Peril,” He breathed softly, trying not to give anything away.

Illya smirked and said, “When has Napoleon Solo ever worried about breaking the law? Unless I have misunderstood--”

Napoleon’s mouth engulfed Illya’s, putting a stop to anymore miscommunications on either end of the conversation. Unlike kissing a woman, Illya was rough, searching for dominance, asserting his desire, there was no upper hand here.

Nothing had really changed, Napoleon found himself thinking, mouth still moving in rhythm with Illya’s. Instead of fist fighting in bathrooms, they were both kissing as though their lives depended on the outcome.

When they broke apart, it was Napoleon’s time to smirk, “You and Gaby really weren’t ever a thing?”

Rolling his eyes, Illya said, “Her female lover would not have liked that much, no.” Napoleon opened his mouth to voice a suggestion, but Illya added, “I don’t share, Cowboy.”

“Waverly won’t like that much,” Napoleon added, moving back into Illya’s personal space.

“Perhaps it is my turn to seduce women, then,” Illya laughed, taking in the jealousy flashing across his partner’s features. “Or perhaps you would like to discuss this in the bedroom?”

Napoleon, already pushing him into the small bedroom across the hall, grinned and said, “Finally throwing out a good idea for once, Peril.”

Instead of arguing, Illya pulled him in the room and slammed the door behind them, perfectly happy to settle this fight with mouths rather than fists.


End file.
